Cold
by Mithara Tolthoron
Summary: Songfic to Static X’s ‘Cold’ from the Queen of the Damned soundtrack… Someone’s got themselves an addiction, and it’s…?


Title: Cold  
  
Author: Mithara  
  
Summary: Songfic to Static X's 'Cold' from the Queen of the Damned soundtrack. Someone's got themselves an addiction, and it's..?  
  
Warnings: Blood play, some implied slash, addiction, cursing, AU, most likely horrible OOC interaction, POV Pairing: OC/Take a wild guess.  
  
Author's Notes: Early morning. Great song. Inspiration rears its ugly head. Read and review, if only to tell me how messed up and wrong I am. Point of View switches with each part of the song, denoted with 's  
  
Disclaimer: The song is not mine. The characters (save my OC) are not mine. WB and JK and all those good people have them, not me. For which they should be eternally grateful.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Thumthumthumthum.. It's always there. That sound, that pull, that need, that urge. Oh gods, how I want it.  
  
Want that flow and the warm spreading through me, and the euphoria. The high. Forget for a little what it's like, the sun. But then you crash, worse than anything else. And all you want is more. And more and more, and before you know it, you're back in the infirmary with Pomfrey's assistant Faolan glaring at you like the beast you are, and you know what you look like, and you don't care, just give me more, god, please, just a little more?  
  
I've got my CD player, now. 'Course, I had to argue with Fred for fifteen minutes to get it, something about bad influences and making me feel worse, some rot like that.  
  
I smile vaguely as my head nods over my final, mind-bendingly long thesis on the treatment of vampires in society. 'Demon or Deserving?' Lovely title, no? I tap out a beat on the wood of my desk, glance up at the clock, and sing along.  
  
'We kiss  
  
The stars  
  
We writhe  
  
We are'  
  
I walk in, and he's hunched up over his desk, gnawing on the end of his pen with something a little more intense than boredom. Dammit. He didn't. Not again, after the promises and the pleading. "When did you feed last?" Shoulders hunch, although how he can hear anything over that infernal racket he calls music, I'll never know.  
  
Maybe it's something with the hearing? Something like that? He turns, and his wide eyes are more than halfway green, radiating out from his dilated pupils and pushing the normal deep violet out. "Fuck. What did you do? You look like you're about to start gnawing on the walls." And there he is. Right in front of me, just like that. I have the fastest reflexes in the school, I'm the best seeker in a hundred years, if you listen to what they say about me, and he moves too fast for me to see.  
  
He's shorter than I am, now, though it wasn't always that way, and he might have outgrown me, had he gotten the chance. But his intense eyes glare out from under that shock of blue-black hair, a quirk of a smile pulls at those full lips, and his infernal headphones hang from his long, oh so pale fingers. His body is full of whipcord tension, and I feel the need to pant for him, since he can't, not anymore.  
  
He's so.  
  
'Your name  
  
Desire  
  
Your flesh  
  
We are'  
  
Need. Want. Need. "Need it. Can't ask 'nyone else. Need." I press my cheek against the angle of his jaw. Oh god, he's so warm. I can hear it. Feel it. Smell it. Just under his skin. Thumthumthumthum. "Need." Right against his earlobe. I play dirty. But I need it so bad. Need.  
  
  
  
'Cold we're  
  
So cold  
  
We are so  
  
Cold  
  
We're so cold'  
  
He's so. Not cold. But his cheek presses against me like the linen of my sheets made infinitely softer, silken smooth, just a touch colder than the room. And his voice, oh gods, it's not fair. Just a whisper of sound, rough with want and need but oh, so good. "You can have it." I angle my head, grabbing the frame of the door for support and swallowing roughly, shivering as the silk-smooth of his cheek slides back, just a whisper of kisses trailing down my throat, stop. I know what he sees. two scars. Just a touch of bruising. I can imagine the look in his wide, unseeing eyes. and why do I fear they look a lot like mine? "Do it. Please. Want you to."  
  
'Your mouth  
  
these words  
  
Silence  
  
it turns'  
  
Can feel it, can hear it. Can. 'Want you to.' Oh god. What did I do to deserve this? Fangs fall, and oh so unneeded breath catches on my lips as I press up against him, so warm, push him against the door, hold us both up, whisper something I hope is a prayer, and press down, predator's teeth slicing through scar tissue with practiced ease.  
  
  
  
'Humming  
  
we laugh  
  
my head  
  
Falls back'  
  
Is it anything like this for him? The endorphin rush to end all endorphin rushes, and I am in a position to talk abou... oooh. Unhg. My legs weaken, breath catches in my chest, and all I can see are the blood-colored swirls behind my eyes. He's up against me, and pressing into me like he always does, just right, and perfect, and oh god so good. Then it's gone, and soft tongue swipes at the marks, catch the last of my blood and make them close up, like they should. "So good."  
  
  
  
'We kiss  
  
The stars  
  
We writhe  
  
We are'  
  
  
  
So good, oh god, so good. Who needs the sun? Fuck the sun. I want what I have, that bundle of contradiction and need and want and shame and pride and big soft pleading eyes, and silly glasses that I always end up stepping on, and black hair that's almost as soft as mine and. Mine. All of him. Who needs redemption?  
  
I've got the Boy Who Lived, and it's fucking good enough for me. 


End file.
